HOME | DD

Description
The figure let the hoard of thoughts blur the loathsome sensation of dust wedged beneath his fingernails. He had had a spade, he was certain, long time ago but it had been eroded into specks among the vast expanses of the desert. He was now ploughing the dust with his bare petrified hands frustrating himself with the distant chimera of finding something long lost and forgotten but treasured deeply. Time had slowly frayed the edges of this recollection leaving only traces of infatuation which pricked him like thorns at night and clogged the smooth whirlpool of his dreams.

Around him levitated pale and sheer walls, rising straight out of the dust. Their scowling expressions could be captured with only the corner of the eye and would vanish at the first attempt of direct contact. Their eyes whipped yataghans in the shivering heat. Their silhouettes heaved in the blistering light like dead-ends in an exit-less labyrinth. The figure bit the dust from under his nails and went on clawing the sifted earth.

That earth, surrounding his entire being, lingering to his sloughing skin, snowing on his hair, ironing out the wrinkles of his clothes beneath a fine crust, this earth had the foulest smell of all deadly reeks. He envisaged it as a furnace like the one into which his father rammed his mother's head alongside the muffins. The rich odour of roasting human meat had taken root in the dusty floors of his memory forcing the floorboards into a perpetual shriek.

Some specks slid into his shoes and nibbled at his naked heels. Their filed tongues had eaten into his socks a long time before and now he had to bend his will into unusual shapes to ignore the scorching pain to which his ankles were exposed.

For a second something crimson flashed before his eyes, the nuance of triumph. For a split-second the thorns blunted, the pain abated swiftly like a tidal wave leaving smooth peace behind but then the sun whipped its mane of fire-feathers and all he saw was dust. This… thing, this nightmare, this gorgon, whose appearance he was sure would be the end of him, lurked undisturbed waiting for him to unearth and relish under a thin film of soil which the sirocco lovingly licked away. And somewhere in the dim corners of his mind, the figure recalled through the thick mist only dreams leave behind that he was the one who dragged the luscious flesh of the treasure outside and buried it one chilly night when the desert was cloaked in a downpour. Now he starved to have it back and the dust kept on wedging beneath his fingernails and then mockingly drifted back to its previous place.

The sky, smoothed by the mouthful of dust covering its ticklish skin, was leaking over the horizon and fingering the heated face of the desert. A face stretched into one broad gloating smile.

Suddenly a hard-edged shadow split the homogeneous tangle of earth and sky and perched on the edge of the figure's nose.

"Do you have a cigarette, mate?" a hoarse voice boomed over him.

The figure looked up in disgust shaking his head to repel the hideous apparition. The voice clenched its fists and treaded away to a nearby mirage where it coupled with a second less deep shadow. A column of grey smoke drilled the faded silence of the dust.

"This pal's more suited for the loony bin," a second voice rasped through the smoke. "What's he doing time for?"

"I heard he butchered his wife. Buried her in the backward, poor lad. Must have been one helluva bitch!" The second voice barked in laughter.

"One rarely goes out of habit, huh?" The first one nodded towards the figure which was still clawing fanatically into the dust.

Description
The figure let the hoard of thoughts blur the loathsome sensation of dust wedged beneath his fingernails. He had had a spade, he was certain, long time ago but it had been eroded into specks among the vast expanses of the desert. He was now ploughing the dust with his bare petrified hands frustrating himself with the distant chimera of finding something long lost and forgotten but treasured deeply. Time had slowly frayed the edges of this recollection leaving only traces of infatuation which pricked him like thorns at night and clogged the smooth whirlpool of his dreams.

Around him levitated pale and sheer walls, rising straight out of the dust. Their scowling expressions could be captured with only the corner of the eye and would vanish at the first attempt of direct contact. Their eyes whipped yataghans in the shivering heat. Their silhouettes heaved in the blistering light like dead-ends in an exit-less labyrinth. The figure bit the dust from under his nails and went on clawing the sifted earth.

That earth, surrounding his entire being, lingering to his sloughing skin, snowing on his hair, ironing out the wrinkles of his clothes beneath a fine crust, this earth had the foulest smell of all deadly reeks. He envisaged it as a furnace like the one into which his father rammed his mother's head alongside the muffins. The rich odour of roasting human meat had taken root in the dusty floors of his memory forcing the floorboards into a perpetual shriek.

Some specks slid into his shoes and nibbled at his naked heels. Their filed tongues had eaten into his socks a long time before and now he had to bend his will into unusual shapes to ignore the scorching pain to which his ankles were exposed.

For a second something crimson flashed before his eyes, the nuance of triumph. For a split-second the thorns blunted, the pain abated swiftly like a tidal wave leaving smooth peace behind but then the sun whipped its mane of fire-feathers and all he saw was dust. This… thing, this nightmare, this gorgon, whose appearance he was sure would be the end of him, lurked undisturbed waiting for him to unearth and relish under a thin film of soil which the sirocco lovingly licked away. And somewhere in the dim corners of his mind, the figure recalled through the thick mist only dreams leave behind that he was the one who dragged the luscious flesh of the treasure outside and buried it one chilly night when the desert was cloaked in a downpour. Now he starved to have it back and the dust kept on wedging beneath his fingernails and then mockingly drifted back to its previous place.

The sky, smoothed by the mouthful of dust covering its ticklish skin, was leaking over the horizon and fingering the heated face of the desert. A face stretched into one broad gloating smile.

Suddenly a hard-edged shadow split the homogeneous tangle of earth and sky and perched on the edge of the figure's nose.

"Do you have a cigarette, mate?" a hoarse voice boomed over him.

The figure looked up in disgust shaking his head to repel the hideous apparition. The voice clenched its fists and treaded away to a nearby mirage where it coupled with a second less deep shadow. A column of grey smoke drilled the faded silence of the dust.

"This pal's more suited for the loony bin," a second voice rasped through the smoke. "What's he doing time for?"

"I heard he butchered his wife. Buried her in the backward, poor lad. Must have been one helluva bitch!" The second voice barked in laughter.

"One rarely goes out of habit, huh?" The first one nodded towards the figure which was still clawing fanatically into the dust.